


Gravity and Ghosts

by 35portlandrow



Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Gravity Falls AU, Plot Barely Follows Canon, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-04-19 00:57:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4726757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/35portlandrow/pseuds/35portlandrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucy Carlyle - recent high school graduate - embarks to the strange little town of Gravity Falls, OR for a new start after the loss of best friends. There, she gets a job at the Mystery Shack with the Man of Mystery himself, Anthony Lockwood, and his grouchy curator, George Cubbins. And along with that, she uncovers secrets that put her world into terrifying context and send her spiraling into a paranormal conspiracy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Nothing screams summer vacation like six energetic teenagers crammed in a van, shouting over one another about really anything that comes to their mind, windows down - which just only makes the vehicle hotter and louder. Don’t try to argue. It’s an irrefutable fact.

And this is exactly how Lucy Carlyle starts her final summer vacation before community college: Wedged in between Steph and the giant plush gorilla Norris keeps in his van, ears assaulted by some bass-y song blaring from the speakers and Steph arguing with Norris and Paul about the most-highly anticipated summer horror flick. And the little smile that grows on her face is fueled by a sense of liberation blooming in her chest. She’s a high school graduate, riding around with her best friends, wholly prepared for whatever the summer has for her. She is free. It’s kind of perfect, really.

“No, no, no!” shouts Steph. “ _Night of the Flaming Eyes_ will suck ass. I guarantee it!”

“You’re so narrow-minded, Steph!” cries Paul from the passenger seat. With a grumble, Steph unbuckles her seatbelt to lean forward, ready for a fight.

“I’m just saying. The premise is super cliche! Teenage kids fuck around with something supernatural that they don’t understand and BAM. One by one, the creepy thing picks them off but has the option of leaving just one of them alive and emotionally scarred, which makes the audience sympathize with them.” She gestures flippantly with her hands. “Been there, done that. _Final Destination_ did that about eighty-thousand fucking times.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, grasshopper,” intones Norris sagely from the driver’s seat, lifting a finger in the air. “ _Final Destination_ is about a group of teenagers who - without having any intention of doing so - piss off a personification of Death, which results in them all dying one by one by one.”

“I literally fail to see how that’s any different.” Paul and Norris share are a brief duet of laughter and groaning.

“It is different! Trust me, Steph. _Night of the Flaming Eyes_ might have a cliche plot, but…” Norris trails off, flips on his turn signal, and groans yet again. “Trust me, Steph. It’s different from other horror movies.”

“And besides,” says Lucy. “Final Destination only has five movies, not ‘eighty-fucking-thousand’ movies, Steph.” Paul and Norris laugh.

“Well,” says Steph, leaning back into her seat. “Ghost stories are bullshit anyway.” Paul sighs.

“Steph, why are you such a killjoy?”

“Yeah, man,” whines Norris. “Ghosts are real!” He gestures back to Lucy. “Ask our friend, Lucy, here. She’s seen ghosts before.” Paul cackles and slaps his hand on the dashboard.

“That’s right! I remember!” He turns to Lucy and waggles his fingers mysteriously. “The ghost of Mr. Jacobs! Who haunts the band room! Ooh!” She grins and smacks his hand, not unkindly.

“Shut up, Paul.”

“Hey, Alfie-Joe,” shouts Paul to the backseat. “Remember when the ghost of Mr. Jacobs fucked up your drum major audition two years in a row?”

“Aw, man, shut the fuck up!” The other five teenagers erupt into laughter. They lapse into silence, and Julie pipes up.

“Hey, where are we going?” Norris shrugs.

“I dunno. Where do you guys wanna go?”

“Well,” begins Lucy. “We could-”

“You guys ever heard of that old farmhouse north of town?” Steph’s interruption renders the car silent again.

“Can’t say that I have,” remarks Norris. “Why?”

“See, it seems like we have a bit of a disagreement here.”

“Disagreement on what?”

“You three.” Steph gestures encompassingly to Lucy and the boys in the front seats. “Believe that ghosts are a totally plausible thing. But I’m saying it’s a load of horse shit.” Lucy chuckles nervously.

“Steph, it’s not that big of a-”

“So.” A wave of irritation ripples through Lucy as Steph interrupts her yet again. “The logical next step is to test that theory.” She reaches forward and hits the power button on the radio. “Anyway, as I was saying. There’s an old farmhouse north of town. A few years ago, my older sister and some of her friends went to go check it out. Just the kind of thing they were into.” She nods at Lucy. “Your sister Anne was there.

“But anyway, they drove up there one night to check it out. They went upstairs - there were, like, four of them there - and checked out what must have been a bathroom back when people lived there. Well, someone had their phone flashlight on, and while they were rooting through the medicine cabinet, it went out. Plunged them all in darkness. Hannah’s boyfriend screamed. The light turned back on, and there were bite marks in his arm. Human teeth.” Steph shrugs. “At least, that’s what Hannah always told me. She and Mark broke up the next day. Conveniently. So I never really got to see those bullshit bite marks.” She folds his arms across his chest. “Moral of the story: ghosts aren’t real. Always get evidence.”

“So, what you’re saying is that the best way to settle this dispute is to go to a haunted house, stand around in it for a bit, and then see whether or not we get bitten by some weird, cannibalistic ghost?” asks Lucy.

“What, are you still a chicken shit, Lucy?”

“Anyway,” interrupts Norris, a preemptive strike. He sighs. “Alright, kids. We’re taking a field trip.” Scattered sarcastic cheers erupt in the car. “Where do I go to get to this not-haunted house?” Steph grins and points out the windshield, directing Norris on a long, winding dirt road, a shadowed forest lining the right side, the slim branches of the trees scraping the hood of the van. On the right side of the road is an open and empty field. Backlit by the light pollution of the city is a tall, square shape. The house. Soon, the six of them are filing out of the van. Steph stands fists on her hips and obvious satisfaction flickering in the grin on her face. Lucy pulls her coat tighter around shoulders.

The house stands three stories tall and abandoned. Empty eyes act as windows, two per wooden side of the farmhouse. It’s old, very old. The white trim is peeling and coated in dust and grime. To the left of the wrap-around porch is the obligatory skeletal tree that seems to always accompany haunted houses, but this one has the pleasant touch of a shabby rubber tire swing. Must have been a family here. It looks like a house that was well-loved and filled with people who were well-loved too. She tries to picture two little children running around the wrap-around porch, squealing with laughter while a mother in a long skirt smiling as she knits away the time. The image doesn’t banish the creep that crawls up Lucy’s back.

“You okay?” Alfie-Joe stands beside her, looking down, blond hair blowing in the barely-there wind. Lucy smiles, mouth closed.

“Yeah, fine.”

“You sure?”

_No._

“I’m fine, Alfie.”

That’s a lie. She’s not okay. Not in the darkness. Not that she’s afraid of the dark. It was just this kind of darkness, the kind that stirred in those empty windows and whispered in her ears. That’s the kind of darkness she is not okay with.

Lucy clears her head with a shake. Lord, she’s letting that story have way too much influence over her. It’s just a dumb story, like Steph said. No evidence, just word of mouth.

She takes a deep breath and follows Alfie-Joe and the rest of them up the barely-intact porch steps. At the head of the pack, Steph is laughing and stepping over the threshold. She slips into darkness. Lucy can’t see her, but she does hear her scream in mock horror.

“Oh, no! Something’s got me!”

“Fuck off, Steph,” says Julie, hesitating behind Norris and Paul.

“Ooh, are you scared, Jules?” taunts Steph. “Do you need me to come back there and hold you? You know I will.”

“Again, fuck off.” Julie sighs, squeezes her eyes shut and steps into the house. She turns around, sticks a hand through the doorway and gestures. “Alright, come on, you two.” Alfie-Joe turns to Lucy and smiles softly.

“You coming, Lucy?” She swallows thickly and buries her hands into her coat pockets.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Come on, candy ass,” cries Steph from the front. Lucy scowls.

“I’m coming.” Her heart slams against her ribcage. She inhales, exhales, steps over the threshold. And screams.

Total darkness. It’s like she’s drowning in it, even though she could see the faces of her friends just seconds before. Icy fingers dig into her shoulders, her neck, rake across her face. Something whispers in her ear. Something fills her lungs with something dark and suffocating. Something sinks its teeth into her arm and knocks her to the floor.

“Oh, my God. Are you shitting me?”

“Stephanie, shut up.”

“Don’t fucking call me Stephanie!”

“Lucy? Are you okay?”

Lucy’s eyes fly open. Five shadowed faces hover just inches above her face. She starts and scrambles to her feet, patting her forearm, which is completely intact.

_Not real. Jesus, it's not real. Pull yourself together._

“Fine,” she breathes. “Just fine.” Alfie-Joe grabs her forearm. She yanks it from his grasp. His face falls.

“Come on,” he mutters. “Let’s go get some air.”

Once outside, Lucy leans on the banister. She stares out into the empty cornfield. The distant lights in the city burn the horizon line orange, but above her, the stars are more present than ever. She keeps her eyes fixed on the horizon, avoiding Alfie-Joe’s concerned eyes.

“You want to tell me what happened in there?” Still avoiding his gaze, shakes her head.

“Nope.” God, it’s almost pathetic how she can smell his disappointment on the breeze. He always does that, always pries to get her to open up, hoping that maybe they'd share a tender moment. Lucy peels herself from the rail. “You know what? I think I’ll sit this one out.” She raises her hand to wave awkwardly at Alfie-Joe and the other four gathered in the doorway. “See you all in moment. Have fun.”

Vaguely, she can hear Steph mutter chickenshit under her breath. Anger sparks in her chest. With difficulty, she suppresses it and keeps walking to the car. She throws open the passenger door and hunkers down. Sucking in a deep breath, she extends her legs out and through the open window. Soon, there is nothing moving outside except for a bat or two and the mosquitoes who execute an aerial assault of her bare legs. Lucy slaps them out of the sky. She glances up at the house. Nothing. No movement. No sound.

They’re probably fine, she thinks.

And yet, she still can’t get the image of a semi-corporeal and balding man from her sophomore year drifting around in the darkened space of the band teacher’s office out of her head. It was real. Definitely real. And definitely the ghost of the school’s former band teacher. She and the other five had gone back in the yearbooks to find his picture. But what she sensed in that house was a lot stronger and a lot stranger than Mr. Jacobs.

“But not real,” Lucy mutters. Somehow, she’s not convinced, so she repeats it again. And again. And again. And again.

Until a piercing scream shatters the night.

Several familiar piercing screams.

When Lucy would try to recall what happened on her first day of that summer vacation, in that very hour and very place, nothing would come to mind but a blur. What she doesn’t remember is how she burst from the car and across the threshold of the house. She doesn’t remember screaming their names. (Later, when the police arrive, her voice is too raw and torn to answer any questions. She remembers that.)

The one thing she remembers, in all of that chaos, is the blood. The mangled bodies of her best friends. Alfie-Joe’s blond hair matted with blood. Julie’s band-tanned ankles twisted at impossible angles. The shape of human teeth gouged into Steph’s neck.

Lucy doesn’t remember kneeling beside their bodies. Or Paul extending a shaking hand her way, still alive but barely. She doesn’t remember dialing 911 as Paul slips away, or the police charging through the house, guiding her away from her friends.

And, if Lucy were to give you an honest answer, she would tell you that she was deliberately trying to forget the funerals. Dreary, terrible, miserable things, which are all things that funerals tend to be. It’s kind of funny. Steph’s parents ask her to give a eulogy at her funeral. She speaks at Steph’s funeral. Steph, who was the biggest asshole Lucy had ever encountered - besides her father.

When the funerals were over, and people stopped patting her backs and walking on eggshells around her, she tucks into her room for a few days. The six of them had never hung out at Lucy’s house, so it’s the one place in town that remains unhaunted for her. She spends her days burrowed under the covers and isolated. They never bother her in the day. They only haunt her at night.

And yet, on the sixth day, restlessness settles in her bones. Her sisters stop trying to coax her out of her room, and it’s when they finally stop trying to get her out that she realizes she can’t stay in there forever.

So she prints out a map of the Pacific Northwest - she and the others had been planning a trip to Portland since their freshman year. The map gets stapled up on the itty bitty portion of her bedroom wall not adorned with photographs or art projects. Somewhere in her closet are some darts and a duffel bag. Lucy unearths both of items. The duffel bag, she packs nearly to the point of bursting. The darts, she throws at the map once her packing is complete, one hand over her eye, silently praying that the dart lands on Portland. But it doesn’t. Every dart but one hits the photographs around the map. And the one that does…

Lucy spends one last night in her childhood home. Before the sun crests over the horizon the next day, she’s on a bus to Gravity Falls, Oregon - where the only dart lands - leaving her ghosts behind.


	2. Chapter 2

Lucy arrives in Gravity Falls late in the evening, just as the sun’s clocking out, its fading light turning everything it touches to gold. The air is fresh, the trees are evergreen, and the bus stop is absolutely filthy. First impressions always last. At the end of the summer, Lucy would say that everything in Gravity Falls was nothing it was cracked up to be; the image she had of some northwestern paradise was shattered upon arrival, the second she stepped off that grimy bus. And with a deep breath, she adjusts the duffel bag slung over her shoulder and begins her new, tetherless state of existence.

All the businesses are tucking in for the night, she notes as she wanders around the town. Except for one aptly-named - and she discovers this over a basket of cheese fries - joint called Greasy’s. It’s nearly empty, except for a mountainous man with an impressive beard standing at an arcade game in the corner, laughing with feral glee at every victory. The woman behind the counter, Lazy Susan, files her nails, every so often coming over to Lucy to refill her coffee.

“Excuse me,” says Lucy. Susan, refilling her mug for the third time, looks up at her. Lucy tries very, very hard not to stare at Susan’s incredibly lazy eye and somehow succeeds. “Are the refills free?” Susan laughs.

“Of course? This look like a five-star joint to you?” Lucy smiles but says nothing. When Susan leaves, she fishes her wallet out of her backpack. One, two, three, four, nine, nineteen… Nineteen dollars. Enough to cover the check, but probably not enough to pay for a hotel room. She sighs. As she’s replacing her wallet, Susan comes back over, leaning on the table. Her hair looks remarkably like a miniature cotton candy parody of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. But Lucy does not remark on that, only says hello as Susan sets the check down on the table, picking up her empty basket of fries.

“So, sweetie, are you visiting family up here?”

“Ah, no. I’m just a tourist. I graduated high school about two weeks ago.” There’s something in the air that makes lying very easy.

“Congratulations!” Susan cries, beaming broadly. “But if you’re a tourist, then there’s only one place for you to go.”

“Where’s that?”

“It’s this place called the Mystery Shack. It’s the bee’s knees, honey!” She flips open the check and scribbles something on the back of the receipt. “If you go there, tell them that Lazy Susan sent you!” Susan leaves, bustling back into the kitchen, leaving Lucy all alone in the dining room, the Mountain Man having left several minutes earlier.

“Well…” mutters Lucy aloud. She opens the check and pulls out the piece of note paper, turning it over. There’s a little map on the back, with an X labelled “MYSTERY SHACK.” Not like I have anything better to do.

So, there she goes, full on cheese fries, homeless, with twelve dollars in her pocket, down a dirt road. Night is quickly falling. The trees around her whisper in the humid summer breeze. She adjusts her duffel bag and backpack again, taking her strides with more purpose. Just for a second, she allows herself to forget the fact that she’s homeless and almost broke. Just for a second, she allows herself to imagine the possibilities of a place called the Mystery Shack. Hopefully it’s not a strip club. Lazy Susan wasn’t exactly specific with what kind of business it is.

The dirt road in front of her splits off to the left. She follows the map in that direction and into a wide clearing. In the middle of the clearing is a large wooden house, standing with shabby pride in the waning daylight. A totem pole stands like a sentinel in front of it, partially blocking two large signs resting on top of the house reading “MYSTERY SHACK” from Lucy’s view. It does not, Lucy decides then, look like strip club and probably isn’t a strip club. And if it was a strip club, it has to be the least lively strip club she’s ever seen. This not-strip club has two doors: one on the face of the house and the other on an addition of to the left. Picking quickly, Lucy chooses the door on the house and knocks swiftly.

The screen door swings open. Filling the threshold is a round kid about her age and a little bit shorter. His sandy bangs brush the top of his glasses. Behind those glasses, bright blue eyes judge her and at backpack and bag slung over her shoulders. The only sounds are muffled voices from within the house and the whine of a mosquito in orbit around her head.

“We don’t want what you’re selling.” He says at last and releases his grip on the knob, letting the door fall shut. But before it can, Lucy sticks her foot in between the door and the frame. The kid looks at her blandly, but there’s something in his eyes that lets Lucy know he’s ready for a fight, if that’s what she wants.

“I’m here for the Mystery Shack.” She looks inside the house. “Is this the right place?”

“No, you must have misread the giant signs on the roof.” He takes off his glasses, polishes them on the hem of his t-shirt, and holds them in front of her. “Here. Do you need my glasses?” Lucy very difficulty resists the urge to smack them out of his hand.

“Just tell me if I’m in the right place or not.” A pause. “Please.”

“No.” That one word is scathing enough to boil her blood. “You’re not in the right place. Door’s over there, but, too bad for you, we just finished the last tour. Come back tomorrow.”

“George?” A voice from inside the house cuts Lucy off before she can reply. From the dim interior of the house emerges another person. Tall, slim, and smiling, he removes a red velvet fez from atop dark hair and tucks that and an eight-ball cane under his arm. Dazzled by his smile, Lucy stands stock still, except for her mouth, which raises at the corners, an unconscious reflection of his own.

“Ah,” he says, nudging the boy by his side. “I win! I knew there was one more tour group.”

“Not much of a group,” the other boy - George - mutters.

“You are here for a tour, yes? Because I’m afraid if you’re selling something, we’re not buying.”

“No, not selling anything,” says Lucy. “Just here for the tour.”

“Well, Miss…?”

“Carlyle. Lucy Carlyle.”

“Well, Miss Carlyle, we don’t take tours after sundown, just as a rule, but you can be the exception.” He grins broadly, gestures grandly. “So, if you’d follow me - Anthony Lockwood, the Man of Mystery - we can begin the tour!”

* * *

Which, by the way, lives up to none of the hype that Anthony Lockwood gives it. The tour begins with him leading her through a dusty and dim sitting room, then through a dark wooden door, and into an empty and dark room. He pats the wall for a second. The lights flicker to life, revealing a shabby little gift shop. He steps to the left, in front of a maroon curtain. With one hand, he lifts the curtain. With the other, he pops off his fez and sticks it in front of her face.

“The tour isn’t free, I’m afraid,” he says. “That’ll be fifteen dollars.”

Shit. Shouldn’t have bought those cheese fries. Lucy smiles at Anthony Lockwood in the most charming way she can muster. Fishing her wallet out of her backpack, she pulls out her remaining money and drops it into the fez. Hopefully, he doesn’t count it. But just her luck, he does.

“You’re three dollars short,” he informs her gravely. Then, he shakes his head, puts the money back in the fez, and secures it back on. “Not to worry. Today we have an out-of-towner discount. Now, follow me.”

Apparently, the Mystery Shack is home to all things paranormal, haunted, and full of bullshit. For about an hour, Anthony Lockwood winds tirelessly around exhibit after exhibit. If you can even call them exhibits. One of these “dangerously haunted artifacts” is a grey rock about the size of her fist from a haunted cemetery in a place called Pere Cheney. Another is a stapler, which came from a haunted college door room at Central Michigan University. A copy of Pride and Prejudice from a high school library in Texas. And other things of a similar bullshit nature.

“You know, I’ve actually heard of this one,” says Lucy, interrupting Lockwood mid-tangent. She crouches down to look at a chunk of splintery wood through a box of silvery glass. “Seven Gates of Hell,” she reads. “What was it like?”

“Terrible, actually,” he replies lightly. “You get past the final gate, and it’s eerie. Totally silent, oddly hot. I chopped this off of the sixth gate and nearly died.” He doesn’t elaborate on that. He bounces back into his full stride, leading her onward. Then, between the final two exhibits, he turns to her and asks, “Miss Carlyle, do you need a job?” It’s an odd question, but a question that leaves Lucy praying her thanks to every higher power.

“I do. Why? What are you thinking?”

“Well,” Anthony Lockwood begins. “George and I have just recently lost a very important member of our team.”

“‘Lost?’ How’d you do that?”

“Ah, lose isn’t the right word. Putting it bluntly, he died, poor Robin. God bless him. Anyway, we’re in need of another employee at the Mystery Shack. Are you interested?”

“I’m not sure George’ll be overjoyed to hear that.” Lockwood laughs.

“Doesn’t matter. He’s not in charge here. I am, and I’m thinking that you’d be a wonderful addition to our team.” He eyes the bags strapped to her torso. “You could stay here if you need to. We have a room in the attic that is currently unoccupied.” Lucy’s relief is so strong that she’s tempted to fall to her knees and kiss this guy’s shoes. But instead, she plays it cool.

“When do I start?” For a second, Lucy thinks the sun’s come back up for a short reprise, but that’s just the brilliant, broad, and winning smile Lockwood gives her.

“Tomorrow.”

* * *

“Where does this door lead?” It’s a wooden door, placed oddly in the middle of the paisley-papered hallway. Just a little under Lucy’s head height were the remains of a rectangular sticked that had been peeled off. Otherwise, it was just an ordinary door. Anthony Lockwood stops mid-stride and turns, eyebrows raised.

“That?” He shrugs. “Not really sure. It’s best not to check them, anyway. God only knows what’s behind them.” An ominous silence creeps over them. Lockwood breaks it with a smile and gestures her onward. “Come on, Miss Carlyle. The tour’s nearly over.”

“You know,” Lucy says as they continue. “Seeing as we’ll be living together, I think it’s fine if you just call me Lucy.”

“Alright, Lucy,” he says, stopping outside another door in the hallway and easing it open. “Would you like to see the bathroom?” It’s a dingy little room. A lone light bulb illuminates the fixtures. One side of the bathtub is propped up with bricks to keep it level. But it’s better than nothing.

“Onward and upward,” says Anthony Lockwood, guiding her down the hallway and to a staircase entryway, which leads to the second floor of the house. “Let me show you where you’ll be staying.”

“What should I call you? I noticed George called you Lockwood.”

“I usually go by that.” A grimace shadows his face. “Although, I did have an employee who called me ‘Big A.’ Her time here was very, very brief.”

“Does anyone ever call you ‘Anthony?’” He doesn’t respond until they reach the top of the stairs.

“My mom did. And my father.”

“Oh.”

Avoiding Lockwood’s eyes, Lucy looks around the attic room. Under a triangular window is a plush red window seat, which Lucy kneels on to get a better look. Through the window is the Shack’s yard and George. He climbs into an ancient, rusty, and cucumber green shoebox. Lucy can hear the ruckus of the engine from where she kneels, and with a speed that’s dangerous for the car’s well being - or any car’s well being - the cucumber on wheels peels out of the driveway and disappears onto the main road.

“Where’s he going?” she asks. A few moments of silence pass before she turns around and realizes that Lockwood’s gone. “Lockwood?”

“Coming!” His voice carries out from an open doorway on the left side of the room. Shortly after, he appears through the doorway. His head is fez-less and his hands are empty.

“Sorry,” he says. “That fez gets a little bit itchy after a while. I was just putting it away. Anyway, what was it you said?”

“George,” explains Lucy. “I saw him pull out a moment ago and I was wondering where he’d gone to.”

“Oh, probably to get groceries. What George lacks in charisma and tact, he makes up for with his culinary skills.” He checks the watch at his wrist. “So, let’s finish this tour.” He waves his hand at the door of the room he just left. “That’s my bedroom over there.” He crosses the room and opens the only other door on the landing. “And this is where you’ll be staying.” Lucy steps through the doorway behind Lockwood.

The room is open and airy, with steeply slanted ceilings. Another triangular window looks out into the yard. Against the side walls are two beds. Both are perfectly made, untouched and unslept in. There’s a closet on the door farthest to her right and a tiny bathroom next to that. It’s definitely roomy enough for one person, and she can see the room in a couple of weeks, covered in sketches of the neverending forests and misty riversides she saw on her way here. She grins.

“I hope it’s not too shabby for you. Or too small. You may have to crouch in the shower.”

“No, it’s perfect.”

“Wonderful!” says Lockwood. The fading light bleeding in from the window casts shadows all over the room and his slim face. So strange, she thinks, that someone so young could be so composed and own a business as strangely successful as the Mystery Shack. Lockwood cannot be more than twenty or less than eighteen. If she had to bet, she would bid on nineteen. Still. So young to be accomplished - relatively speaking. He turns to Lucy, and smiles a little bit awkwardly, which she reflects. The tension is snapped by the ringing of Lockwood’s phone, which he pulls out of his suit jacket and puts on speaker. “Yeah, George?”

“Pizza’s on its way,” says George on the other end, a faint and jaunty pop tune playing softly in the background. Then, he curses and lays on the horn.

“Anyway,” he growls. “I’ll be home in a bit. Did you tell that girl to hit the road already?”

“No, George.” Lucy’s face burns. “She’s still here. In fact, she’ll be working and living with us from now on.”  A stunned silence.

“You’re kidding. You have to be.”

“Mind your manners, George. You’re on speaker.”

“Whatever. Anyway, tell her that we’re getting Hawaiian pizza, whether she likes it or not.”

“He doesn’t have to tell me anything. You’re on speaker, remember?”

“Right, okay. Didn’t ask for your input, but whatever. I’ll be home in a bit.” The call ends with a muted beep.

“Oh, he’s really grumpy if he’s decided not to cook for us. Do you like Hawaiian?” asks Lockwood, slipping the phone back into his jacket.

“Better than olives.”

“Good, then you’ll help me set the table for dinner.” He claps his hands together and bounds out of the room and, slightly overwhelmed by his unbidden energy, she follows, down the stairs and into the kitchen where, dodging her new employer and housemate as he busies himself with paper plates, a sudden feeling blossoms in her chest, not at all unlike the spirit of freedom she’d reveled in at the beginning of summer. But this - this was a start at a new life, if only for a while. Something hopeful that Lucy had been lacking for far too long.


	3. Chapter 3

Her first duty as the newest Mystery Shack employee, Lockwood tells her as he shoves a pile of shabby wooden signs into her arms, is to go to the forest and place these little arrows pointing back to the Mystery Shack.

“Simple enough?” asks Lockwood, adjusting the fez on his head and unbuttoning a button on his suit jacket. George bops around the gift shop with purpose, a clipboard in his hand, making frantic notes as he surveys the merchandise.  

“Definitely,” she says, remembering the endless sea of leafy trees surrounding the Shack and Gravity Falls. “Which part of the forest?” A bell dings somewhere, and Lockwood turns away from her and to the gathering group of people on the welcome mat.

“So sorry! Have a tour to run. Ask George if you need any help.” He herds the throng of people and begins his grand speech, eight-ball cane waving as an emphatic accompaniment as the tourists duck to avoid decapitation. Lockwood disappears behind the curtain, and George looks up from a circular rack of t-shirts at Lucy and then looks back down at his clipboard. When he says nothing, Lucy awkwardly clears her throat.

“George?” He looks up, podgy face as inexpressive as the night before, when he stared her down over the steaming boxes of pizza. “What part of the forest was he talking about?” Again, he disregards her for his clipboard. Her hands ache to hit him in his surprisingly square jaw, but A., her arms are full of splintery signs and B., that would probably not make the best impression. She settles for sternly saying his name again, instead. Irritation flits across his face.

“Heard you the first time,” he says, ripping a piece of paper off his clipboard. He extends the arm holding the paper out in front of him, making no effort to move. After a moment of scribbling, he looks up again, piercing blue eyes narrow behind the thick frame of his glasses. “Well, aren’t you going to come get it?” Grudgingly, Lucy stalks over to him.

“What is ‘this?’”

“A map to the part of the forest where Lockwood wants to you place those.” He wiggles it under her nose. “Take it. I’m busy.”

“My hands are full,” says Lucy scowling. “You couldn’t have just told me where to go?”

“That would have taken more time, and like I said, I’m busy.”

“Yeah, busy enough to waste two minutes of your precious time being an ass than to take thirty seconds to explain to me where to go.” His eyes flash dangerously. Oh, now her hands are burning with the urge to knock those stupid glasses off his impudent face.

“I have work to do, and you’re not worth it.” He turns away from her. She wants to kick something, so she kicks the screen door open and exits the Shack and lets out a deep sigh. Wonderful. She landed herself a job with the sourest dickhead on the continent of North America.

“That’s just great.” She follows the map’s instructions to a dark, isolated part of the woods. When Lucy looks around, she can see that the Shack is no longer within eyeshot. The back of her spine tenses, like someone’s standing too close behind her. When she turns, nothing. Lucy sighs again, and enters the forest, where the trees lean down with their skeletal arms as steps under their canopy to nail the signs to the trunk. One by one, she continues, her mind fuzzing out as she goes through the motions. That is, until a metallic sound cuts through the static, bringing her out of her head. She glances over her shoulder. Again, nothing. She raises the hammer again to post the sign. It hits the nail on its head. Cling.

There it is again. Lucy steps away from the tree. She reaches out a hand, expecting warm, damp bark but instead feeling the harsh coolness of metal. Surprise jerks her hand away, but curiosity makes her step forward again. The brown metal of this strange tree is coated in dust. She wipes the dust away, which opens a small window that reveals an electrical panel, decorated with two switches rusty. What the hell? Lucy, despite her better judgement, flicks one of the switches. Nothing happens. She flips the other. Nothing happens, but only for a moment. Something mechanical whirs from the earth behind her, and she nearly breaks her ankle falling into the suddenly-appearing hole.

Her flip-flopped foot lands on the cover of a thick tattered book, Lucy discovers. She sets down the heavy wicker basket, and takes a seat on the edge of the hole. She retrieves the book from the hole and sets it in her lap. Suspicious, Lucy checks twice over both shoulders for anyone (or anything) watching. All clear. She runs a hand over a golden cutout of a six-fingered hand on the cover, embellished with a black number three. Does that mean there are more journals? A glass eye-piece dangles from the binding by a tattered string. She runs her thumb over the smooth glass. She flips to a dusty and random page. There’s a hasty ink sketch of a rotting and limbless corpse, aptly titled LIMBLESS. Ew. She turns the page with a flick.

_It’s been exactly one year since I came to Gravity Falls, one year since I became deeply engrossed in the mysteries of this little town. Terrible mysteries. Awful secrets. Corruption and deceit._

Lucy runs her fingers of the words, brows furrowing in interest. She continues to flip through the pages, eyes skimming their contents until the book falls open on another page.

_TRUST NO ONE._

_At last, my suspicions have been confirmed. He’s been watching me, and I must hide this book before he comes for me. If you stumble upon this book and stop to read it, remember this and only this: there is absolutely nobody you can trust in Gravity Falls._

Her breath catches in her chest, right next to her racing heart. Slowly, she gets on her feet, clutching the closed book close to her torso. The feeling returns, the one that makes her worry she’s being watched. It freezes her for a moment, and for a second, she feels icy fingers stroke the back of her neck, something whispering to her softly, incoherently. Everything she’s made a point of forgetting makes an unwelcome comeback: a skeletal tree guarding a forsaken house; a scream, several screams; bloodied bodies; and broken flesh embedded with the crescent-shape mark of human teeth.

_Run._

Lucy scrambles, throwing everything she can into the basket, including the journal. She stumbles over bushes and fallen trees. She plows through the forest. Her heart slams against her rib cage, and she gasps for breath but gets none. She doesn’t stop until her feet slam against a dusty dirt road, the one that led her straight to the forest. Sunlight warms her scraped skin. Her frantic mind sighs with relief. She steals a moment to catch her breath and gather her wits before she continues on to the Mystery Shack. She glances down to her basket. Damn, she didn’t hang up all the signs. Quickly, she picks them up and tosses them in the brush of the nearby forest. Then, before she reenters the Mystery Shack, she stops in front of the gift shop exit, the weight of the journal heavy against the crook of her elbow.

Should she keep it? The sketches, while intriguing, are a little bit grotesque. And the anxious scribbles which keep an account of paranoia that’s God-knows-how-old don’t do a thing in making her comfortable in her new home. But at the same time… There’s somebody who should not get his hands on that book. And Lucy’s bones are telling her to listen to the author of this journal, despite its outlandishness.

So, Lucy drops her backpack to the ground, crouches down next to it, and makes a quick transfer of the journal from the wicker basket to her backpack. This is something, she decides, would be more safely kept as a secret.

Lockwood’s the only one in the gift shop. He leans against the counter, drinking from a plastic water bottle with a stack of dollar bills resting on the counter under his left hand. When he sees her, he smiles.

“Lucy, hey. Just the person I wanted to talk to.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” He comes toward, all business. “I heard about this morning.”

“Oh. I’m not in trouble, am I?”

“You? No, but I did give George a good telling off for being such an ass to you. If you’re going to live here, there’s something you should know about George. You know hypocrites? People who are nice to your face but rude behind your back? Well, George is kind of like that but the complete and total opposite. He’ll say terribly rude things to your face but like you when your back is turned. He takes great pride in it.” He pats her shoulder. “So, when he does what he does, know that’s not because of anything you did. Okay?”

“Okay, yeah. Thank you for clearing that up.” Still doesn’t give him an excuse to be such an ass. But she smiles at him. He smiles back, and it’s all a little bit awkward until Lockwood excuses himself to eat lunch. He leaves, taking the awkward with him. Relieved, she enters the house and shuffles into the living room. Her backpack hangs off her shoulder and half-open. With a deep exhale, Lucy plops down into the dusty mustard-colored chair, her eyelids heavy and eyes glued to the ceiling. She searches blindly with her left hand for the remote. She finds it, flicks it on, and stares blankly up at the wooden ceiling.

“Are you lonely and feeling dejected?” queries a mellow voice from the TV screen. Low strings hum in the commercial.

“No,” Lucy mutters just as an actor onscreen cries, “YES.”

“Are you missing dearly those dearly departed?” Lucy fixes her eyes on the screen. There’s a tall, sloping, and navy blue tent, like something from a circus onscreen, standing dignified beside a river and a roaring waterfall. A figure emerges from behind a curtain. It’s too small to discern who it is, but whoever it is raises one hand in solemn greeting.

“Then come on down to Lil Leopold’s Tent ‘O’ Telepathy, where the loved ones you await are waiting for you.”

“Winkman. Can’t stand him,” Lockwood nearly growls around a mouthful of leftover pizza. He leans on the doorframe of the kitchen, shaking his head. The tassel on his fez keeps time with his disdain.

“Why? What did he do?”

“See, his whole act is that he’s a psychic. Specifically, a psychic medium. Leopold Winkman claims he can talk to the dead, but it’s common knowledge around town that Mr. Munro’s father left everything to his parrot. That was no shocking revelation. At least, it shouldn’t have shocked anyone. And yet the entire tent rose to their feet and applauded that corrupted gnome. Terrible. A disgrace to legitimate psychics everywhere!”

“Uh oh,” says George, sidling up beside Lockwood. “Winkman’s commercial’s on.”

“Yeah,” replies Lucy. “Is that what he does in the Telepathy Tent?”

“Tent ‘O’ Telepathy,” corrects George.

“Does is matter?”

“Sort of yes, sort of no,” Lockwood answers. “I’m talking about your earlier question, Lucy. He does give out psychic readings, but the genuinity of those readings is a bit ambiguous. Actually, not at all. It’s straight up bullshit.” Lockwood scratches the end of his nose. “Anyway, I’m going to get back out there. I have a feeling we’re about to have a rush of customers!” He leaves in a drastically improved mood than when he arrived. George and Lucy are alone together. He stares at the television, watching the opening credits of some buddy-cop comedy. Lucy clears her throat.

“So,” she begins. George doesn’t divert his attention from the TV. “What’s Lockwood’s deal?”

“He hates Leopold Winkman. Thought we just finished talking about that.”

“You know what I mean,” she says crossly. “Where is he from? How did he get the Mystery Shack? What’s his-”

“Look, Lucy. You’re new here, so your ignorance is kind of forgivable. Lockwood is a private guy, likes to keep to himself, mostly. But what I’ve gathered in the past six months is that he lived in Boston for a majority of his life in the care of some relative. Sometime within the last year, he became the owner of this place. Besides all that, I don’t know much else.”

“Wait, ‘some relative?’ So he didn’t grow up with his parents?” George polishes his glasses on the hem of his t-shirt and makes for the door to the gift shop.

“His parents?” he echoes over his shoulder. “No. From what I’ve gathered, they’re probably dead.” He twists the knob, steps through the threshold, and is gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lucy begins her little clandestine fascination with local psychic mediums.

“That’ll be seventeen dollars and fifty cents,” says Lucy, gaze bouncing between the bills in the customer’s hand and the clock above the maroon curtain. A middle-aged man sets the bills down on a bright blue t-shirt that reads “I WENT TO THE MYSTERY SHACK AND ALL I GOT WAS RIPPED OFF.” _Ooh, nice. Exact change._ A small girl with a gap in her teeth grins broadly as he hands down the t-shirt. Lucy smiles and bids them goodbye as they walk out the screen door. Finally. She sighs the sigh of the long-suffering, of the “s _adly, I work in retail._ ” On aching feet, she hustles to the door and flips the sign to CLOSED. There’s George, across the floor, absently bobbing his head to the music leaking from the radio. Crossing the room to the counter, she pulls her jacket and wallet from behind it and doubles back to the screen door. 

“Going somewhere?” asks George, not sparing a glance up from his clipboard. With a smirk, Lucy shrugs on her jacket, letting the door shut behind her with a bang.  _ Ha. _

The sun’s doing what it always does at this point in the evening: gloriously coating everything it touches with an amber glow. The pine trees sway gently in the quiet breeze. The air settles on her skin, humid and hot and really dusty. Really dusty. Dust slides between her feet and the soles of her flip-flops. The stifling heat aside, it really is a wonderful night. In silence, she walks along the dirt road that leads into town. She tunes her ears to the space around her. The shuffling of her feet on rocky road. The birds singing soprano in the trees. The rustling of the trees in the wind. The sinister whispers tickling her ear-

Lucy stops, turns in a full circle, eyes wide open, every nerve in her body alert. Nothing. There is absolutely nothing anyway except the trees and dirt. She sucks in a deep breath. What the hell is wrong with her? Normal people just… they don’t hear voices, not like that. Not in a way that makes them afraid to turn out the lights at night. No. They just  _ don’t _ . And ever since Jacobs in the band room, the voices have become more and more frequent. Then her little episode in that farmhouse. It’s just… normal people don’t hear dead people. Usually they just see them. If at all.

There’s a horrible and sinking feeling in her stomach, like someone dropped a rock the size of her fist down there, that makes her realize that she fucked up. Man, she fucked up magnificently. She left home to get away from all the spooky shit, and yet, here she is, employed and living in a house full of haunted artifacts with the rudest coworker to ever exist, on her way to see a psychic medium perform. Which is precisely the opposite of what she wanted in a new start. And yet, here she is, financially unavailable to change her circumstances. Even then, she’s not entirely sure if she really even wants to go somewhere else. Where else could she go? Definitely not back home. That’s the last thing she wants in the world. 

So that’s it, then; she’s stuck here. At least, for the time being. Stuck working at the Mystery Shack with that insufferable George and Lockwood. And then, a sudden and unusual streak of optimism casts her mood upward. You know, it could be worse. She’s not sure how, but she knows that it could be worse.

The main road splits off to the left. Lucy follows it that way, eyes scanning the town, trying to figure out where this Tent ‘O’ Telepathy is. Just a little ways past Greasy’s, she spots a group of teenagers. From their irreverence toward the “no loitering” sign outside of an adjacent bookshop, she guesses that their native citizens. She approaches them with an awkward little wave.

“Hi,” she greets. It’s been too long since she talked to kids her own age. “Could you guys tell me where the Tent ‘O’ Telepathy is?”

“Sure,” says a vaguely punkish girl, not unlike Lucy in her looks, sitting beside a dark-haired and clean-cut boy. “Keep going down this road, turn left on Cedar all the way until the end of the street. From there, there should be signs telling you where to go.”

“Alright, thanks.”

“I mean,” continues the girl. “If you wanted to get ripped off, you’d better go to the Mystery Shack. Biggest pile of horseshit in the Pacific Northwest.” The teens laugh. A spark of rage flares to life in her chest, and then she’s suddenly very sure that she does not like this girl at all.

“I think the biggest pile of horseshit over here is the fake lip ring you have right there.”  The teens laugh at this too, let out a low whistle and an appreciative “damn”. “Told you you should have gotten it done for real, girl,” says a short black boy. Ally touches the pink plastic ring on her mouth self-consciously and glares at Lucy, who smiles beatifically.

“Anyway, thank you for the directions. Be seeing you.” Lucy turns, feeling oddly triumphant and strides down the road she was directed. 

She’s able to find the Tent, eventually, but it’s not like it’s easy to miss. It rests on the shore of a narrow river. Spotlights point towards the heavens, dotting the clouds with little silver circles of light. Whimsical music echoes around shabby little homes and businesses.  And if that isn’t enough indication, there are signs decorated with a round-faced kid, hair black and brushed across his forehead  posted at intervals: THIS WAY! COME VISIT THE TENT ‘O’ TELEPATHY. WONDER AND MYSTERY JUST AHEAD! After following the instructions, Lucy finds herself in the far end of a mass of people. They chatter excitedly, all while moving very slowly toward the curtained mouth of a tall cone-shaped tent. Half an hour passes. God, it’s like the whole town came out for the show. Maybe they did. Maybe it’s time to bail, but then the crowd shuffles forward and she finds herself in front of the ticket booth. The attendant stares at her blandly.

“Can I help you?”

“Yeah, one ticket. Please?”

“That’ll be twenty dollars.” Oh, God, it’s an even bigger rip-off than the Mystery Shack. Lucy exchanges a twenty for a ticket. “Enjoy the show,” drones the attendant. Lucy follows the path of a dark blue carpet into the tent. Dark wooden benches line either side of the carpet, packed with the assorted citizens of Gravity Falls. Soft, eerie music floats on the air, which is fresher and cleaner somehow than the air outside. Lucy settles for a seat in the back. It kinda reminds her of a church revival, the pews, the platform, the podium. Just no preacher. Not that she’s really been to church, but if she had to imagine a revival, it would probably be like this, just without all the creepy foreboding atmosphere.

Lucy shifts in her seat, checking her phone. It feels a little clandestine, truth be told. Being here, waiting for Lil Leopold to take the stage. She works at the Mystery Shack, the sword and unspoken enemy of Leopold. She should want nothing to do with Leopold Winkman, except if she’s contemplating sabotage. But still. She’s a little bit nervous, to be honest. The whole “psychic medium” thing, like, it can’t be real, right? And if it is? She has a lot of ghosts behind her. What if they try to talk to her? Or, talk to her through Lil Leopold? It would kinda defeat the purpose of running away for a new start. Oh, maybe this wasn’t a good idea. She’s ready to leave when the music abruptly suddenly. The lights dim. Around her, the excited crowd murmurs. Then, fog rolls onto the stage. A low humming fills the tent. It’s all a bit theatrical, kind of cheesy, but that doesn’t stop chills from inching up her arms.

“Good evening, esteemed guests,” says a youthful and disembodied voice, low and mysterious. “Are you ready to meet with the dead?” There’s no response; the crowd is hypnotized into an awestruck silence - Lucy included.

In the wonderful silence, a small, bulky figure appears onstage. A spotlight flares to life, illuminated who must be none other than Leopold Winkman himself. He’s young - this really comes as no surprise to Lucy - but his face, despite glittering with charming stage presence, is brutish, hard. Dark hair swept to the side, dressed in an immaculate navy suit, face decorated with round-lensed glasses, he raises short and strong arms into the air. An invitation. Seemingly of their own volition, the audience rises. Lucy’s heart’s beating a little bit faster now. Leopold smiles, and it’s cruelty disguised as charm, nothing like Lockwood’ sunny and genuine charisma. 

“Please, be seated.” He waves a hand downward. The crowd sits. He gazes out to them behind blue-tinted lenses. He straightens his tie, clears his throat, and walks down the steps to the center aisle.

“Some of you,” begins Leopold Winkman. “Come here to hear from loved ones, those dearly departed who were taken from us, whether it was untimely or if the hands of time were calling them to the Great Beyond. Some of you come here to be convinced. This, to you, is nothing but nonsense, theatricalized solely for effect. Effect  _ and _ profit. Those of you who identify as the latter must now prepare for a total shift of convictions. My name is Leopold Winkman. I am a psychic medium, and I seek only to deliver the truth to everyone that I can.” He pauses, eyes scanning up and down the aisles. He stops at the end of a middle pew, looking down at a middle-aged white man. “You,” he says, pointing a finger. “Stand up. Come stand by me.” The man obliges. “Sir, what is your name?”

“Uh, Chris. I run the hardware store on Pine Street.”

“Chris, I’m sensing the spirit of an older woman, possibly a mother figure?” Chris swallows hard.

“That’s her. My mother, I mean.”

“How long ago has it been since she passed?”

“Not too long. A little over a year.” Leopold shakes his head solemnly.

“Chris, I am so sorry for your loss. But your mother wants me to tell you that she is so proud of who you are, so proud of the life you’ve led this far. She hopes that in her absence, you continue to not dwell on what could have been. Do you understand me, Chris?” Choking on tears, Chris nods. 

“Y-yeah.” Leopold reaches up and claps him solidly on his shoulder.

“Christopher, thank you for letting me serve you in this way.”

“Uh, yeah, man. Sure thing.” Leopold ushers him back to his seat.

“Give it up for Chris, everyone.” The audience applauds. So does Lucy, who is very surprised at his genuinity. He doesn’t seem like a total fraud. Maybe Lockwood’s just jealous or something. The applause dies down. Winkman continues pacing up and down the aisle. He rubs his hands together, finally settling on someone the other side of the aisle, a little farther back. He points. “You, the sweet little girl. Come here.” A little girl, skinny and lanky, dark natural hair wrestled into braids. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Aisha.”

“Aisha, it’s so wonderful to meet you. How old are you?”

“I’m eight. Yesterday was my birthday.”

“Well,” says Leopold, grinning. “Happy birthday, miss Aisha. Now, I’m sensing someone around you. A mother figure. Did you lose your mommy, sweetheart?” She bursts into tears, skinny frame shaking with little hiccuping sobs. Leopold reaches for her hand and takes it tenderly. The crowd awws softly. After some time, Aisha mutters a quiet and broken “yes.”

“Well, Aisha, your mommy wants me to tell you that she loves you so very, very much. She wants you to stay in school, work hard, and not be too sad that she’s gone. In fact, she wants you to know that anytime you feel sad, just remember that she has never left you. Can you do that for her, sweetheart?” Aisha nods. Behind her, there’s a woman who bears an uncanny resemblance to Aisha, but she’s insubstantial, noncorporeal. She runs a not-there hand over her daughter’s hair. She smiles in a way that only mothers can. Lucy’s chest tightens. Her mouth goes dry, frantic eyes looking around the audience. None of them seem to notice the woman. Then, Lucy realizes: they don’t see her. This was a bad idea. A round of applause sounds. She claps absently, watching as Aisha’s mother turns to nothing. Then, Winkman is standing in front of her. He says nothing. It’s odd to see that the lenses of his glasses are glowing a little bit, and there’s something in the eyes behind them that Lucy supposes is surprise. He opens his mouth, like he’s going to say something. Her heart hammers against her ribcage. Then, thankfully, he turns away. His parade up and down the aisle goes on. He leaves Lucy alone. 

Lucy lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. This is suddenly not fun anymore. Leopold continues to deliver surprising heartfelt messages from the dead to their loved ones, but Lucy had stopped paying attention a while ago. She’s snapped out of her lapse in attention by a soft little buzzing in her pocket. She slips out her phone discreetly and checks the screen.  _ Lockwood. _ As discreetly as she can, while the crowd gawks, utterly transfixed by Leopold Winkman, Lucy rises from her seat and steps out of the tent, accepting the call as she lifts the cloth entrance open. 

“Hello?”

“Hello, Lucy. Do you like McDonald’s?”

“Um, sort of. Why?”

“It’s what we’re having for dinner tonight. On me. What would you like to eat?” A raucous round of applause thunders from inside of the tent. The music begins to play again. Show must be over.

“Chicken nuggets and a coke, please.”

“Great choice. Say, where have you been? We’ve been missing you all day - George, don’t say that. That’s a very rude thing to say.” 

“Oh, you know, just walking around town, seeing all the sights.” The crowd files out of the tent, milling around. A couple slips out, man and a woman. The woman is strongly built, with large forearms and a full blonde head of hair. The man bears an uncanny resemblance to Leopold. Same endomorphic body, same dark hair, same cruel face but it bears more heavily on his father’s face, years of taking it out on other people marring his features. They stare coolly out into the crowd. Mrs. Winkman’s eyes fall on Lucy, and suddenly she has the most unnerving feeling, like a bug pinned to a cork board.

“Sounds like a lot of fun. You’ll have to tell me about it when you get home.”

“Yeah, sure thing, Lockwood.” Leopold Winkman leaves the tent, standing next to his parents and looking oddly tiny. Several clumps of people walk up to him. They shake his hand, touch the lapels of his coat. Jesus, the next thing you know, they’ll be kissing his probably $400 dollar shoes and calling him the Messiah. He seems to revel in the attention. His parents stand at his side, proud sentinels of the wonder that is their son. Then, as the crowd disperses and without a hint of subtlety, Leopold directs his gaze and a pointed pudgy finger to Lucy, whispering something behind his hand to his father and then to his mother. “Listen, I have to go, but I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Okay. Bye, Lucy!” She hangs up the phone and takes long strides away from the Tent ‘O’ Telepathy. She is immensely relieved when she can no longer feel the burn of their collective gazes on her back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Senior year is kicking my ass and I am SO sorry that you've had to wait this long for a new chapter. Thank you so much for being so patient and not burning my house down.
> 
> If it's any consolation, Lockwood will be watching Bad Girls Club in the next chapter. Passively, of course. (I'm trying very hard to keep this from slipping into a crack fic but sometimes it is very hard not to let my grip on the reins slacken a little bit.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lockwood watches Bad Girls club, George discovers the journal, and Lucy strikes a loaded deal.

One fabulous perk of the Mystery Shack, besides the free room and board, is the very, very informal meals that often happen in the living room, something for which Lucy is immeasurably grateful - mostly out of her discomfort with pomp and circumstance. So, when Lucy comes home, she finds Lockwood and George draped and slouched (respectively) in chairs in the living room, eyes fixed on the television. Lockwood, after hearing her enter, grins broadly at her, practically launching himself out of the seat. He grabs the slightly greasy paper bag next to the chair and the condensation-covered cup and thrusts them in her face.

“Got your food, Luce. Dig in.” She takes the bag and cup from him.

“Thanks.” She takes a seat on the floor, folding her legs underneath her, fixing her gaze on the TV as Lockwood settles back down in his chair. “Ah, what is this that we’re  watching?”

“ _Bad Girls Club_ , I think,” Lockwood replies. When Lucy turns and stares at him, he quickly adds, “I don’t watch this nonsense recreationally. There’s an order coming in at around seven, and I’m just passing the time. If anyone here actually and actively enjoys a little _BGC_ , it’s George, right?”

“I mean, it’s no _America’s Next Top Model_ , but it occasionally satisfies that void.” They lapse into a silence. Behind her, Lockwood taps his foot on the carpet. She turns to see him check his watch and blow out a puff of air, the tassel on his fez flicking upward. They make eye contact, and he smiles a little bit awkwardly, an expression she returns in the same fashion. Lucy turns to the TV. They finish that episode and another before there’s a ring at the front door. Lockwood rises to his feet.

“Finally, it’s here. George, come on and give me a hand.” George groans and heaves himself to his feet, following his boss as he bounds out the door, leaving Lucy and the Bad Girls Club alone together. She gets to her feet, shoving the remaining three nuggets into her mouth, and switches off the TV. Then, listening intently to make sure that the other two are in the gift shop, she reaches next to the armchair for her backpack. She opens it. The journal feels heavier in her hands for some reason. She checks over her shoulder once and then twice before opening it, curious fingers flipping through the pages. Finally, she lands on a page labelled CORPOREAL GHOSTS. Someone with a messy hand littered rough sketches all over the paper, with little notes accompanying them. TAKE VISIBLE FORM. MAY OR MAY NOT BE ABLE TO COMMUNICATE - DEPENDING ON PERSON’S ABILITY AND GHOST’S STRENGTH. NOT VERY USEFUL FOR ANYTHING OTHER THAN HALLOWEEN DECORATIONS.

Lucy runs a finger over the words, eyes flickering all over the page. She’s lost in the words, lost in the wonder of it all, the feeling over validation - it’s not just in her head, thank God - until George comes thumping into the living room. She snaps the book shut, but the action does not go unnoticed.

“What do you have there?”

“Nothing. Just some light-reading.”

“Do you need some help? Paragraphs can be pretty hard sometimes, especially when they come one after another.”

“I’m fine on my own, thank you very much.”

“What is it you’re reading, Fifty Shades? It seems like your type of book.” Lucy jumps to her feet, journal tucked under her arm, just inches away from the edge and hitting his fucking face with it. But then a faint little voice - not the spooky kind, just the intuitive kind - reminds her that this is the only place the world has for her. Make it work, it whispers. So instead of assault, she takes what Mary calls a “cleansing breath” and breathes out all the tension in her limbs.

“Here,” Lucy growls. She thrusts the journal into his arms. George fumbles with it, apparently afraid to touch hypothetical porn. “See for yourself.” He examines the cover, running his fingers over the golden foil hand, placing the eyepiece to his glasses, holding the book at eye level. He opens it, pudgy fingers running over the pages and turning them reverently.

“Whoa,” he breathes. “This is…” He looks up at her. His eyes, she notices, are as sharp and as keen as an eagle’s eye. They’re a striking contrast to his otherwise formless face. They glitter with the relentless pursuit of knowledge by the dedicated scholar. Somehow, it makes Lucy begin to respect him a little. “Where did you find this?”

“In the woods on my first day here. There was this weird metal tree, and it opened up. There were buttons inside, so naturally I pressed one. A hole opened up in the ground and this was in it. And I took it.” George narrows his eyes.

“Show me.”

 -----

“This is it?”

“This is it. This is where I found the journal,” Lucy responds, watching George as he stares at the hole in the ground. He crouches, running a reverent hand inside the circular metal rim and over the grass. He rises up and walks over to the tree. His finger hovers above the panel and the buttons, like he’s tempted to hit it again.

“But… this makes no sense.” Lucy can see the cogs turning in his head. He takes off his glasses and polishes them. “Why is there a metal tree in the middle of a forest? In Gravity Falls, of all places? Who put it here? What purpose does it serve? Who wrote the journal?” He pauses. “Does it say who wrote the journal in the journal?”

“Ah, I’m not sure. I haven’t really had the time to look at it.”

“What is the reading level too advanced for you?” Oh, fuck you, buddy.

“You know what, George? I found the journal. I am allowing you to look at it. But if you keep making those particularly asshole remarks, you can kiss it goodbye, and I’ll put it right back in the ground.”

“Well, that’d be a sort of stupid way to go about that. You know, because you just showed me where it came from.” Oh, she’s not going to kill. She’s not going to kill him. Even though they’re alone in the woods and far enough in that nobody would hear him scream, she’s not going to kill him. “Also, as curator of the Mystery Shack, I think it is of the utmost importance that I read as many texts about the paranormal as I can. Especially one that’s so local. If what’s written here is the truth, every building in Gravity Falls must be haunted. I have to keep looking at this, Lucy.”

“Can you at least try to be civil, then?”

“Only if you will. Okay, yes, fine. I’ll try to be civil, as long as you don’t ever do that thing with your eyes again. It’s unnerving.”

“Deal?”

“Yeah, sure.” He buries his head in the journal again and then comes up for air a moment later to tell her, “You know we can’t tell Lockwood about this, right?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Listen, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but most of what’s on display in the Mystery Shack is total bull. That brick? It’s not actually from the Alamo. Stapler? Not even haunted. He bought it at Staples three months ago. That copy of Pride and Prejudice? Well, that might actually be haunted. I’ll have to test it later.”

“Your point?”

“Lucy, our boss - he’s a fraud. He cheapens the truly paranormal by claiming that all the fraudulent things are actually haunted. He has absolutely no reverence for this kind of stuff. If he found out, he would exploit it just for a quick buck.”

“Then what’s his beef with Leopold?”

“He’s probably just jealous that he’s not the biggest fraud in town.” He pauses and polishes his glasses. “I know how that sounds, but I respect the hell out of Lockwood. It’s not easy running a business that young, especially one so successful. Well, relatively successful.”

“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask about that. How did he wind up with the Mystery Shack? Do you know?”

“Nope. Lockwood’s pretty private, likes to keep to himself. And I wouldn’t push him with question. He’ll clam right up if you do.”

They return to the Mystery Shack in silence. Lucy serves as George seeing eye dog, because he buries his nose in the journal and mutters to himself, too busy to watch out for that log of that thicket of poison ivy. When they arrive, she opens the screen door for him, pushing him gently to his left to avoid smacking his head on the door frame. She’s ready to follow him into the house until she hears the faint crunch of rubber on gravel. Turning around reveals a sleek, angular, and black sports car, its driver stepping out through the door and into the piney air. It’s Leopold. Leopold Winkman, dressed in that dark blue suit, glasses perched on his strong wind. When he sees Lucy, he smiles blandly.

“Hello, Miss Carlyle?” Warily, she pokes her head into the lobby. With a velvet swish, George disappears behind the curtain, book clutched in his hands. When he leaves, Lucy looks back out at Leopold Winkman.

“Yes, that’s me,” she says.

“Well,” he says, approaching her. “I would introduce myself, but you were just at my show. So I need no introduction, really.”

“Leopold Winkman. How can I help you?”

“The real question is, how can I help you?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Listen,” begins Leopold, taking off his glasses and clipping them to the pocket of his jacket “I’m not blind, Miss Carlyle. These glasses are more for effect than anything else. Anyway, I know a fellow psychic when I see one.”

“Wait, hold on.” Lucy holds up a hand. “How could you tell that I’m a psychic? I’m not even sure if I am a psychic.”

“Like calls to like,” he replies, grinning softly. “You see things. People. People who aren’t there and haven’t been there for a very long time. People who linger in your periphery. Their presence is almost like a tease, like a taunt. You-”

“Winkman, I know what it feels like. I experience it almost everyday. Now, are you here to tell me more things that I already know or are you actually here for a good reason.” His eyes, unveiled without his glasses, are beady. In that moment, a flash of anger bursts across them.

“You’d do well to mind your manners with me, Miss Carlyle. I’m here to help.”

“Yeah?” Lucy challenges, folding her arms across her chest. “How?”

“I’d like to help you learn how to understand your gift, to control it. It’s… it’s frightening at first. Trust me, I’ve been there.” The anger is totally gone. In its place is shocking vulnerability. Lucy debates for a moment if it’s genuine or not. “So, if you agree to it. I’d like to meet with you once a week to help you navigate this process. But only if you agree to it.” Lucy looks over her shoulder and through the open doorway into the Mystery Shack. She reaches behind and pulls the main door shut.

“Is there a catch?”

“Miss Carlyle, you’re new to Gravity Falls, right?”

“Well, yes.”

“And yet, you so willingly trust Mr. Lockwood and Mr. Cubbins, people who are practically strangers to you, but you can’t find it within yourself to trust me?” He smiles. “There is a catch, Miss Carlyle. All I ask is that you trust me. Trust me, and I can help you. So, what do you say?” A moment’s contemplation. This feels like betrayal, in a way, She was Lockwood’s employee before she was Leopold Winkman’s anything - audience member, protegee, whatever. To actively spend time with his enemy. But then again, Winkman has a point. She’s only known Lockwood for just a couple of days now. Really, what does she owe him? A house, a job, free food, refutes her rational side. And yet…

And yet she’s spent every night here - and every night since the incident, really - with the lights on, whittling away the dark hours by hiding behind the false security of the light. She’s tired. She just wants it over with, and here is a reputable psychic offering her just that. A way to control whatever the fuck is going on with her.

“So?” Leopold asserts. Lucy looks down at the proffered hand and shakes firmly with a slightly shaking hand.

“Yeah, we have a deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here. Have another chapter because I feel like such a dingus for putting this off. You guys are the best, seriously.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lucy gets her first lesson from Winkman, George continues to not cook for the crew, and someone commits a B&E.

Leopold Winkman’s dressing room is massive, almost as big as his ego and the Tent. The whole scheme, the whole design of it aligns very nicely with his obvious vanity. There’s plenty of room for two red velvet couches, a grand armchair, brilliantly illuminated vanities lining the right wall. All along the left wall are rows and rows of costumes, varying from something straight out of a salsa dance routine to something long and glittering with gold sequins. The whole room is very dazzling, Lucy surmises, and also not the place she imagined she would be instructed on the occult. It looks like something straight out of a Broadway diva’s dressing room. But oh well. Beggars can’t really be choosers, and he could be teaching her in a public bathroom stall - which would be very,  _ very _ shady, indeed. As Leopold guides her to the sofa and takes a seat in the armchair, she thinks,  _ well, it could be worse.  _

“So,” says Leopold, reaching behind the seat and pulling out a wooden box with a silver box. He sets it on the cushion next to Lucy steeples his fingers. His look is even and steady behind his blue-lensed glasses. “Are you ready to begin?”

“What is this?” She holds the box in her hand. When she tilts it, she can hear things sliding around on the wood.

“Ah, be gentle with that.”

“Sorry.”

“Miss Carlyle, are you ready to begin?”

“Of course,” she replies quickly, suddenly anxious to get to work.

“Open the box,” Winkman commands. She opens the box, flipping the silver latch and looking in at its contents: an old doily; a tie pin; and something that looks like a pressed prom corsage.

“These are what we call Sources, things that tether the dead to the living world. Some individuals have the ability to sense the nature of the life and death of the spirit to whom this Source belongs. I expect that you are one of those individuals. There are three ways by which people encounter spirits: Sight, Hearing, and Touch.”

“So, how do I sense the spirits? Which one of those three do I have?” Winkman shrugs.

“Not sure. The only way to discern that is through experimentation. Take out the doily. Now, hold it in your hand. Clear your mind of all thoughts. Let it become an open door. You may close your eyes, if it helps.” Winkman is silent as she sits and waits for something. It’s not long before the sorrow sinks into her bones, like someone replaced the marrow with lead. It’s overwhelming. It’s like trying to hold onto something that will never return. Her grip on the doily slackens. She’s very tired. Somewhere far off is the faint ticking of a clock, steady and slow, steady and slow. She’s not even sure if she’s breathing anymore. Not really sure of anything, actually. Not until Leopold grabs her shoulders and gives her a forceful shake.

“Miss Carlyle! Miss Carlyle!” Lucy comes to, wrenching Leopold’s iron grip on her shoulders away.

“What the hell just happened?” He doesn’t respond. Instead, he leans back in his armchair, scrutinizing her.

“Your sensitivity is incredibly, well… _ sensitive _ . I haven’t seen anything like that anywhere, excepting myself, of course. Care to go on?”

“Whoa, slow down, pal. I need a minute.” The world has stopped spinning around her, which is an improvement, but she’s still lightheaded, still close to tears from the overwhelming sorrow that crashed down upon her. The doily rests crinkled in her hand. “Whose is this?”

“You tell me.” In the brief silence that follows, Lucy breathes in and out slowly, piecing the shards of emotion and memory she is left with. 

“An old woman, late in her life. She and her husband lived alone, their children had moved out and started their own families. But time passed and her husband developed Alzheimer’s, dementia, something like that. He began to forget her, their children, and all the time they had spent together. And then…” There’s that ever-fading ticking again. Lucy swallowed thickly, shaking off the feeling. “She died in her sleep before her husband.”

“Very good,” Leopold says through a wide grin. “ _ Very  _ good. You show a significant ability to empathize with the spirits. Needless to say, Miss Carlyle, I’m impressed. Now,” he says, gesturing to the pressed corsage. “Try your hand with this.” Lucy, still a little dizzy from the doily, picks up the corsage and holds its fragile petals in her hand. This time, something soars in her chest. It feels like… a wild and energetic affection for someone. Then, the throbbing of a heavy kick drum and the melody of a synthesizer. A swirl in her head, like that one time she had a drink from Steph’s spiked coffee in first hour. Frustration boiling around her neck. Somewhere far off, she can hear the screech of a car horn, then the sound of glass too close to her face. Then, with a sharp pain in her neck, the world goes black.

When she wakes up, she’s laying on the couch, the world spinning around her like a top. Everything soon evens out, and she sees three Leopolds phase into one, sitting sideways in his armchair, the toes of his expensive-looking slippers skimming the top of her backpack, which is unzipped. He gazes at the book in his hands thoughtfully, licking his thumb and flipping the page. A big book, almost as big as his head. No, wait,  _ her  _ book.

“So, Miss Carlyle,” he says without glancing her way. “Where did you find this?” She stammers for a second, grasping for a lie.

“It was a Christmas present,” she lies swiftly. He raises his eyebrows, the skin on his forehead wrinkling, making him look like some bizarre hairless, villainous pug.

“Interesting,” he says. “So your fascination with the occult precedes your arrival at Gravity Falls.”

“Yeah, now can I have my book back?” She sounds a lot more authoritative than she feels, hauling herself upright, all the blood rushing out of her head.

“Hold on, Miss Carlyle.” He flips a page. And then another. “This looks handmade.”

“My friend Steph made it for me. Took her about a year, but it’s the best thing I own. Now.” She gets to her feet and stands in front of her backpack, a shaking hand outstretched. “Can I have it back?” He says nothing, only stares at her. “ _ Please _ . It’s getting late.”

“Of course,” he says after a terse pause. He slides out of his chair and walks to the curtain. “Well, if that’s all you want to do for today.”

“Yes, it is. I’m feeling a bit peckish.”

“The next time you want to continue your work, you know where to find me.” She shoves the book into her pack and slings it over her shoulder with it still unzipped.

“Good night.” He pulls open the curtain for her, and she passes through it, feeling the burn of his eyes on her as she walks across the stage and down the center aisle of the tent. Behind her, Leopold Winkman slips back into her tent and picks up a walkie talkie from beside his eyebrow kit.

“Follow her,” he says, pressing the button on the side. “Get me that book. Copy?”

“Yes, sir.” A pause. “Anything else?”

“An iced capp would be nice.”

“I’ll get right on that.”

* * *

 

“Greasy’s,” says Anthony Lockwood on the other end of the phone when Lucy answers. She’s passing through town, hoping to make it home before it gets too dark.

“I’m sorry?”

“George and I. We’re on our way to Greasy’s for a milkshake. Are you in? My treat.”

“Oh, no,” says Lucy. “You don’t have to pay for mine.”

“Are you sure? I’m paying for George’s, so this isn’t because you’re, you know…”

“Broke?” 

“Yeah, that.”

“Right.” She’s at the door to Greasy’s now, and steps through, the bell dinging and the call ending with a  _ boop _ . The crown of Lockwood’s dark hair can be seen over the barriers between the booths and George’s backpack lays stuffed and close to bursting against the far wall by the bathrooms. Lucy walks down the length of the counter, waving at Lazy Susan as she tends to the customers at the counter. She slides in the seat opposite from George and Lockwood, who are squished together in one seat of the little booth. Lockwood smiles at her. George opts to acknowledge her with a small nod in her direction, but buries his nose in a magazine whose title she can’t quite read at this angle.

“Enjoy your evening off?” asks Lockwood, sliding a menu across the table to her.

“Sure,” says Lucy. She opens the menu and raises it surreptitiously to cover the lower half of her face, not really looking at the menu. Instead, feeling a little shiver of guilt, wondering if there’s a smear of glitter on her face somewhere that’ll tell them where she was. Then she notices Lockwood’s big dark eyes looking at her intently, waiting for elaboration. “I didn’t do much. Took a walk.”

“Interesting! No doubt there’s a million things to discover here in Gravity Falls. Also, do you like chocolate shakes? You weren’t here when Susan took our orders. Hope that’s okay.”

“Oh. That’s fine. Just fine.” They lapse into another silence. Then, Lockwood nudges George in the ribs. 

“Budge over, George,” he says. “Excuse me.” He slides out of the booth and slips through the bathroom door. When it slams shut, George looks over his shoulder and drops the magazine on the table.

“I think we should tell Lockwood about the journal.”

“Changed your mind, then? What happened to him being a ‘fraud’?”

“Disregarding my earlier comments,” condescends George, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Lockwood  _ is _ reverent of the psychic arts and related things. Really, he is. And I think the Shack would seriously profit from the exploitation of the journal.” Lucy folds her arms, leans back in the booth, watches the wooden door to the bathroom.

“Think he could tell us anything about the author?” George’s eyes widen behind his glasses. Before George can say anything, Lockwood emerges from the bathroom, wiping his hands on his jeans. He slides into the booth next to George.

“Went in there, washed my hands and everything, only to find that they were out of paper towels. Good thing we don’t come here for the sophisticated atmosphere, yeah? Speaking of sophistication, here comes Susan.” At his praise, Susan sets down the tray on the table and pinches Lockwood on the cheek. He takes it without flinching but not without a rather plasticine smile on his face.

“Aren’t you such a charming little peach? Now, who ordered the banana shake?”

“That would be George,” Lockwood responds, passing the shake to him, who has since picked the magazine he was reading before (Lucy can see the title now:  _ True Hauntings.  _ Just the sort of thing she’d picture him reading. If she had to picture him).

“And who ordered the caramel shake?”

“Your charming little peach,” quips George from behind his magazine.

“Which leaves the chocolate shake for you, dear,” sing-songs Susan. She tucks the tray under her arm and beams down at Lucy, a radiant thing that is only dimmed by her wandering eye. “See you found the Mystery Shack boys, like I said you should.” Lucy, ignoring Lockwood and George’s eyes on her, takes a sip from her shake.

“Yeah, I did.”

“Well, you keep them in line, Miss Lucy.” She, like a society girl gossipping behind her fan at a ball,  raises the tray between her mouth and Lockwood and George, speaking to Lucy. “They’re not rule-abiding angels, now, are they?”

“No, I suppose not,” says Lucy, finally looking at them. “Seem more like peaches to me.” Cackling, Susan walks away from the booth and back into the kitchen, where her laughter can still be heard. George, as always, remains unaffected by her remarks, but Lockwood stares at her, one eyebrow and one corner of his mouth raised. He says nothing, but downs his shake with impressive rigor. It takes the other two of them considerably more time to finish their shakes than Lockwood, and even after they leave Greasy’s, they have a hard time keeping up with Lockwood, who bounds ahead of them, coattail disturbing the dust on the road from its sedentary evening routine. The sunset is gorgeous, an array of oranges like different flavors of sorbet. Her fingers itch for her watercolor kit. Just as she’s about to lose herself in the colors and the aesthetically-pleasing way the sunset turns Lockwood’s hair sort of auburn, George pokes her upper arm. The spell breaks and she instead turns to see George point at her backpack and mouth, “the journal?” After a moment’s hesitation - Does she really trust Lockwood with this? Honestly, does she even really trust George with the journal? Why can’t the journal just be her little thing? - she nods. The only change in George’s expression is his eyes seeming to brighten behind the lens of his glasses, a change Lucy would come to associate with the thrill of the hypothesis. She turns away, looking forward again, and nearly slams into Lockwood, who stands still in front of them in the clearing of the Mystery Shack, his hand raised in front of them in a way that says  _ stop _ . They stop. He points his index finger toward the front door of the Shack.  _ Look _ . They look. It doesn’t register immediately to Lucy, but then she sees what stopped Lockwood. The screen door is torn in the middle, and the black door behind it is slightly ajar.

“I could have sworn I locked it,” mutters George.

“We’re going to enter through the gift shop entrance,” says Lockwood softly but firmly. “Then we’re going to take a look around. No talking, no flashlight.”

“What if someone’s in there?” Lucy asks, not exactly thrilled with the idea of encountering whoever broke into their home.

“Then we apprehend him.”

“Or her,” says George. “Gotta be fair.”

“Hope you’re ready,” says Lockwood, grinning like a wolf over his shoulder to the both of them. “Because we’re going in.”

They slips inside of the gift shop, as quiet as anything. While they wait in the darkness, Lockwood grasps for something to his right. Then, with the barely-there clinking on metal-on-metal, he distributes something that feels like the hilt of a sword in Lucy and George’s hands. Lucy’s eyes adjust after a moment, and she begins to see the outline of Lockwood, hunched over to about three-quarters of his height, poking the blade of a silver sword into clothing racks and behind the gift shop counter. She sees him nod slightly. Then, he creeps toward the museum, where, after a good amount of poking, they find nobody. It isn’t until the three of them walk into the house portion of the Shack that they see what happened. 

The kitchen is left generally untouched, as George would later declare his gratitude for, except for the wide-open cabinets; however, someone displaced the mountainous stack of books and papers he’d left on the coffee table in the living, something he would spend a good hour grumbling over later. Further investigation of the house finds their bedrooms ransacked. Not that there’s much in Lucy’s room to ransack, and George’s room always looks like that. In the hallway on the first floor, Lucy watches as Lockwood runs his hands over the private door, closing it gently and innocuously shut without a word or a care that Lucy sees him do it. The last room they search is the office, which looks like a six-foot tornado passed through. Papers everywhere. Filing cabinets left wide open. Everything out of place except for the safe, which Lockwood opens and shuts, breathing a sigh of relief when he finds everything in order.

“I’m going to check the house again. If you hear me yell, that means run to me, not run away from me.” Before either of them respond, he’s out the door of the office and snooping around the house again. While he’s gone, George begins to tidy up, using the flashlight on his phone to reorganize the files by what Lucy figures is some sort of color-coded system.

“Didn’t Lockwood say no flashlights?” she asks. George scoffs slightly.

“Nobody’s in the house. At least, they aren’t anymore. Lockwood’s just paranoid.” The house is quiet, the sort of quiet that’s loud, and in that silence, Lucy feels a shrapnel of guilt in her chest. What if this is somehow related to Winkman? To the journal? Could it be? There was something sort of off about the way her lesson ended. Maybe he sent one of his drone-ish security guards to look for the journal. That manic hunger she’d seen in his eyes. It had to have been Winkman.

“George.  _ George _ .”

“What?”

“I think that maybe Winkman is connected to this.” George looks up from the desk, the flashlight on his phone illuminating his face from its place on his lap, like a little kid telling a ghost story.

“Leopold Winkman? What makes you think that, Lucy?”

“I’m sorry, did one of you say something about Winkman?” Lockwood stands in the doorway, the house still dark, but empty, behind him. Lucy sighs softly.

“Yes, I did.” She drops her backpack to the ground and unzips it. Holding the journal tightly against her chest, she eyes both of them in the dimness of the room. “George, I know you wanted to come clean to Lockwood about the journal, but there’s something I have to own up to. To the both of you. See, I haven’t been fully honest with either of you.” Her heart thumps like a rabbit’s foot against the ground in her ribcage. She might just lose her job in the next five minutes, but her deceit has endangered the home of her colleagues.

“About what, Lucy?” His face impassive, his gaze even and cool, Lockwood stares at Lucy from the doorway, leaning on its frame.

“We need to talk about Leopold Winkman.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a boulder that sits atop a mountain, symbolizing the plot of the fic. It is now lumbering down the mountainside and will soon gain speed and destroy everything in its path.


End file.
